A House Is Not a Home by James Earl Hardy Page B

hetero to get crunk. Raheim hadn’t been on the club scene in a while, and as far as he could tell he hadn’t missed anything. While the space was different (yet another white establishment hosting their weekly, obligatory Negro Night), the faces weren’t: Several of those present were the same closeted b-ballers, NFLers, and rappers he’d been running into for years, muggin’ and mackin’ with the same played-out game. And they were doing their best to look an age they passed a long time ago, stylin’ in skullies and sports caps, Rocawear and Sean John, and the latest designer sneakers or that old standby, Timberland boots. And, yeah, he was a part of the tribe: he had the latter on and felt rather . . . juvenile. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d think this way, but he now believes there’s only three reasons for a man to wear them: If he’s a hard hat, going hunting/hiking, or portraying someone who works construction or is an outdoorsman. And he can’t believe the time, energy, and money he spent—and wasted —cultivating a look and formulating an image with and around those boots. Ten years ago he wore them almost every day; today, maybe once a month (and that’s for a job). Part of it was to project to the world that he was as hard as they come, but the reality was that he wasn’t. Clothes don’t make the man, they only drape the man, and they can’t help you find yourself or define yourself. And the longer he stayed, watching the overage delinquents trying to outgangsta one another, the more impatient toward and sickened by the whole scene he became.
    And Angel could tell. “Man, don’t look so down. You makin’ me depressed.”
    â€œI’m not depressed.”
    â€œYou look it. This is a celebration, remember? You should be happy, grinnin’ from ear to ear. Not only are you gonna be a movie star, you did your time and came through it.”
    â€œDid my time? Man, you make it sound like I just got outta jail.”
    â€œWell, in a way you did serve a sentence. Only you decided how long it had to be so you could get yourself right.”
    â€œI guess. I . . . I just feel out of place.”
    â€œ You feel out of place? I’m the one who had to work late and couldn’t change out of this uniform.” He was wearing a white shirt and dark blue slacks. His powder-blue tie was in his back pocket and his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his chest hairs. “At least you look like you belong up in here.”
    â€œLooks can be deceivin’.”
    Angel placed his beer on the bar. “You’ll never guess what I heard.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œErnie was killed last night.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYou know, Ernie Rockland. Rock.”
    Yeah, Raheim knew. Rock, the guy who gunned down Raheim’s boyhood homie, D.C., in 1993. Raheim heard through the grapevyne that Rock had gotten out three years ago after serving just six years of a nine-year sentence for killing D.C.
    â€œFor real?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œUh . . . how was he killed?”
    â€œThey say he owed some dealer money. They shot him execution style, in the back of the head, three times.”
    â€œDamn.”
    Angel waited for more of a response; nothing. “That’s all you gotta say?”
    â€œWhat else is there to say?”
    â€œI don’t know. I guess I just thought you’d be . . . glad.”
    â€œGlad? Why would I be glad somebody got killed?”
    â€œThis just ain’t somebody.”
    â€œI know. I wouldn’t wish that shit on anybody, not even my worst enemy, and he was it.”
    â€œYeah. I know it’s wrong to think but . . . I’m glad he’s dead.”
    â€œI understand.” Raheim noticed a brutha checking out Angel. “Go on over, yo.”
    â€œNah, nah, I ain’t ditchin’ my boyee.”
    â€œYou